


the death of me

by luvridden



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: F/M, M/M, PLEASE listen to the death of me while ur reading this for the full experience, Past Molly Graham/Will Graham, molly divorces wills sorry ass. i did it for the lesbians
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-01
Updated: 2020-12-01
Packaged: 2021-03-10 03:54:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,409
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27807889
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/luvridden/pseuds/luvridden
Summary: molly divorces will, and will takes up another game of cat and mouse.
Relationships: Molly Graham/Will Graham, Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Comments: 2
Kudos: 35





	the death of me

**Author's Note:**

> very loosely inspired by the death of me from marianas trench (as well as the entire phantoms album bc what the hell)

In the words of Vita and Virginia, he was loved. Passionately, not reasonably. When he hit the water, the roiling and black in the moonlight (it (blood) really does look back in the moonlight) Atlantic in the arms of his former psychiatrist, half enemy and half friend, certainly a lover, it burned so bad he thought he'd been consumed in flames. Not as much as it burned to be loved (and love in return) by Hannibal the Cannibal.

It still came as a dull shock when Molly served him the divorce papers. One day, while Wally was at school. While everyone was trying to maintain a sense of normality. But how do you go back to microwave dinners and silence and seven dogs after chamber music and five course meals and inanely decorated townhouses? 

You don't. 

That's what Will thinks, anyway. “I can't do this,” she says. She swallows, face carefully blank and nose red. “I love you, Will.” The words sank into his stomach and sat in there, taking root. It also sat heavy on his tongue. Belatedly, he thinks the words taste like blood, sticky and thick like blood. For a moment, he sees Hannibal in a pristine and awful suit in the corner of his vision and he turns so hard he almost gives himself whiplash. “You haven't been mine in a long time.” _You’ve been his. Weren't you always?_ He catches himself shaking from the cold, inside and outside.

“I'm sorry,” He whispers through mucus clogging his throat, sobs sitting and waiting in his stomach. “I'm sorry.”

“It's not your fault, not really.”

“Don't say that, Mols.” He sighs, fingering the handle of his now cold porcelain cup of coffee. “And isn't it? My fault?” 

“Don't look so glum,” she replies, pocketing a pen. “It doesn't suit you.”

“It doesn't suit you either,” he counters, trying to bring himself to inject venom into his voice. “You didn't deserve me. Not me happening to you and fucking you over.” She flinches at the swear word. Sure, he's said damn or shit. Never fuck. 

“You said you would be different when you came back.” _You look vulgar to me. Not only mental changes but physical changes._ Her mouth twists into a bitter grin, half up and down. “I don't think you've come back, not really. I can’t definitively judge.” His throat stings and he clenches his jaw, like he can crowd the sobs behind his teeth. “I know you loved me. Maybe. In your own way.” 

Scattered snippets of poetry come to him like pebbles to a window. _If you love me, Henry, you don't love me in a way I understand. Sorry about the blood in your mouth. I wish it was mine._ “I'm sorry,” he says again, tears miraculously not falling. 

“Stop saying that,” she says quietly. He wants her to yell at him.

He realizes he wants passion. He wants flame and his blood in Hannibal’s mouth and slow dances and peacocking at stupid _fucking_ dinner parties. He can't remember the last time he felt passion with Molly, sweet _sweet_ Molly Foster (Graham), who gave him space and allowed herself to be fed lies for the sake of their own comfort. Who allowed a killer in her home. Father, husband, former FBI, traitor. Guilt stings and he inhales from his mouth to dispel the sweet taste of it. He wants to spit it out, like Cordell’s cheek those three years ago. “I'll sign, Molly.”

“I know.”

“Please don't blame yourself.” He takes her hand when she moves to hand him the blue pen, finally looking her in the eyes, pleading. “It's not your fault.” He encases her hand with his. Her hands were always so warm, in comparison to his icy ones. Like hands, like hearts. He knows he has the capacity to love.

_Just not her._ Hannibal traitorously whispers in his ear, close enough to feel his breath ghost his cheek the way it did before the fall. 

“Do you love him?” That question, always that _goddamn_ question. He mentally crosses himself for taking Thy Lord's name in vain. First Bedelia, now Molly. At least he could channel his emotions into hating Bedelia, hating for how close she got to Hannibal. Of course, Will was closer, but it didn't stop that surge of possessiveness that made his insides bloom red-orange. He knew what he felt was possessiveness when he bit off Cordell’s cheek.

And the way Hannibal had looked at him after, a split lip showing his pride ( _the teacup I shattered dared to come together_ ). _Denial is an ugly thing, Will._ He's cooed into his ear, making his cheeks flare red. He licks his lip, setting his forehead on her forearm. His eyes shut tight, and she caresses the back of his head, stepping closer and knotting her fingers in his curls. They stay like that, like Mary holding Jesus. She's forgiven him, hell, he doesn't think she's ever really held a grudge for not loving her the way she should be loved. 

“I'm sorry,” he croaks, figuring it's as good as a yes to her. It's as good a yes to _him_ as well. 

“I'm not angry.” She says, resigned, “I'm not sure I could be angry at you. Hell, I'm not sure I was ever angry in the first place,” she admits, scraping her nails against those thicker and smaller curls at the nape of his neck. “I don't want anything. I'm sure the court could bully you into child support, but that's it.” He stays silent, setting his forehead against her soft stomach and wrapping an arm around her waist, pulling her closer. _You haven't hurt me in a way I haven't expected._ He takes the pen from her, signing his name and dating it in a scribble on the lines designated for the husband. 

_Soon to be ex-husband,_ Hannibal hisses with undisguised glee. 

_Shut up,_ he thinks back, knowing it's all in his mind. His mind palace. _You and I have begun to blur._

_We have already blurred, Will. Haven't we discussed this in front of the Primavera? When you limped towards me and I lost my breath as I took you in again. I do remember you as you were, Will. I remember the dimples making parenthesis around your mouth as you (fondly) grinned at me for the first time in half a year._

He gets the urge to clap his hands over his ears. _Stop it._

_I remember the cut of your suit and how you carried your weight on your right because you injured your left. I remember wanting to wipe the coagulated blood off your forehead and dress the wound. I'm sure you remember me as I was that day._

_With an ugly turtleneck that made you look like a Bond villain - and a fond grin of your own, Romeo._ He wants to push Hannibal, childishly.

_Don't be disparaging. Your shirt was worn for days until you found me. The least you can do is not comment upon my appearance when you looked no better._

_...Touché._

Molly seals up the envelope, setting it into her purse. 

“I wish I could've loved you in the way you loved me,” Will says to Molly. 

Molly says to Will, “So you did love me.” She finishes with a laugh, slightly humorless. He settles for a silent nod, already planning on moving down south again. 

_My mind palace shares rooms with yours,_ Hannibal says wistfully. _I wonder if you could find me, then._

_You're not in BSHCI? Not even in your cushy little cage?_ He can’t resist the urge to taunt him, knowing he wasn't pouring salt into any wound. 

_Certainly more spacious than yours was,_ he returns, turning his back on him and plucking a book from the shelf. Iron springs into Will's mouth.

“I'll be the one moving out. The house is yours.”

“We should break it to Wally,” she says quickly. “Before you go.” 

“Right. Of course.” He nods. “Do you want me to start packing...?” 

“I…” She puffs up her cheeks. “That one’s up to you, champ.” She offers with a humorless smile, wrenching open the refrigerator for iced tea. He nods, unsure what to do without direction. He stands anyway, rooting through his drawers for his flannels and shoving them into a suitcase. He leaves the flap open, grabbing his pairs of jeans and shoving those into the backpack he grabbed from under the bed. 

He never had much in the way of possessions. It made it easier to move around that way. The walls shake with the vibration of Wally opening and shutting the door. They talk lowly for a while, then the microwave runs. He comes out, hands shoved in his pockets. Walter sits at the table, eyes down on the wood. “Mom said you guys need to talk to me,” He says monotonously, still not looking at either of them. His eyes flit to Molly. Suddenly, he looks up at Will, eyes wide and ever seeing. “It's not good. Mom gave me that look when my Dad died. But you're both alive, and that leaves another option.”

Molly smiles bitterly again. “Yeah.” 

“I'm sorry, Walter,” Will says automatically, stopped by Walter's hand coming up. 

“Stop -” he looks at the adults, “the both of you.”

Molly bites her lip. “Wally, we still love each other.”

“That's good. I sure hope you guys would, otherwise you wouldn't have gotten married. I'm gonna take the dogs.” He stands, leaving the two adults as he whistles for the other six dogs and opens the door. Winston stays at Will's side. 

He comes in later in the evening as Will is grabbing his shoes. “Does this have to do with the scars on you.” He poses it like a statement instead of a question. Will looks into the mirror and then out the window. “It's okay if it does. Mom knew before you did.” 

He blinks. “Walter, I'm sorry.” He sits down on the bed, giving his full attention to his son. 

_Former step son._

“Stop that.” _Like mother, like son._ Hannibal hisses again, and he gets the urge to swat him away. But he'd be swatting thin air. “I don't think you're sorry.” 

“What do you mean?”

“You're sad for us. But you know it's the right thing,” Walter says. Will takes a deep breath. 

_So that's how that feels._ He nods silently. “You should've gotten a normal stepdad. I'm sorry I couldn't be that for you.” His arms twitch at his sides. Walter always wanted hugs when he was sad or scared. He's making a point now to stay away from Will. 

“How many times are you and Mom gonna say that? It's just something to alleviate your guys’ guilt. For not staying together for the kid. But I think it would've led to resenting one another; so I think it's good that you guys chose to avoid that,” Walter says, cutting Will to the bone. “Stop feeling bad about not being a good dad for me or whatever: You were the best you could be.” _Given your trauma._ “I'm still pissed you lied to Mom.” 

“That makes sense,” Walter surprises him with snickering. “Would you like a hug…?” He ventures, uncertainty making his voice tick up. Walter wipes his eyes and nods, coming closer and climbing onto Will as they lace their arms around one another. 

“I don't hate you, if that's what you're worried about.” Will doesn't have it in him to be surprised. “How soon will you be gone?” 

“Probably over a few days. I'm just gathering my stuff.”

“Let me know so I can say bye.” 

“Your mom’s gonna get the papers up to the courthouse by the day after tomorrow. We’re probably gonna see a few lawyers. There's nothing to divide up, really. I'll go back to Wolf Trap.” _And look for Hannibal._

* * *

He pockets the disposable phone, marking up a map with a sharpie. “Hannibal expects me to be looking for him. So where would he go?” He looks at the map. Biloxi, New Orleans, Erie, and three more locations. “Might as well connect the dots.” He shrugs, the irony that places he’s lived being drowned in blood not lost on him. He fills up the gas tank, slamming back an energy drink and paying the station. He comes to a shed in the middle of nowhere, getting there before the blood dries on the wood floors. He sidesteps the bodies and pools of blood. Fucker drew flowers with the blood. Stargazer lilies and orchids; what should be white orchids. He catches a slightly more creaky floorboard, filing that away for another moment. 

He checks around the other rooms, careful to not leave fingerprints. He picks up a paper. _He's leaving me love notes,_ he notes dryly, crumpling up the paper, and shoving it in his pocket. The glimpse he got of it had five words: _Catch me if you can_ , written in that calligraphy he now unfortunately associated with Hannibal. 

He gets back into the truck, pausing mid movement. He roots around in the truck bed, finding a crowbar and stomping around, catching the creaky floorboard again. He pried it open and up, throwing the wood to the side. It's a lockbox, with a fucking fingerprint code. He swears under his breath, heaving it up and throwing it in the passenger side of his truck. He's gonna have to ditch the truck soon. It sits on the desk at the cheap motel, staring at him; so he stares back at it, elbows propped on his knees and chin in his palms. Finally, he stands and inspects it, turning it this way and that. _It's probably going to have a set amount of times I can try for one day._

Index would be too simple, as would the thumb. Pinky is too small for that scanner being the size it is, so that leaves two options. He tries the left ring finger first, blinking in shock when it comes back red. _Fuck me, that still leaves four fingers._ But he knows Will’s right handed. So he tries the right middle finger next, entirely unsurprised when it pops open. In there, he finds a note. 

_Dear Will,_

_I assume you've gotten the box open. Well done, cunning boy._

Despite himself, he feels a hot flash of pink crawl on his cheeks, shaking his head to dispel it. 

_It mustn't come as a shock to you that places you've lived are being painted red._

_No, fucker, what shocks me is that you drew_ flowers _with the blood. A little ham handed, don't you think?_ He gets the blue impulse that he misses Hannibal, squishing that down for when he finds him. When. 

_I do want your company, Will. I do hope you can figure it out soon._

_All the best,_

_Your Hannibal._

_His_ Hannibal? Will wanted to punch him or kiss him, he'll decide when he sees the peacocking bastard. However, he can't deny that he _has_ missed Hannibal (except for his mind games. He can go fuck himself with that one.

*

Days later, he gets a call from Jack. “Hello, Jack,” he says politely, taking a drink of shitty gas station coffee and waiting for the gruff reply. 

“Hello, Will. Been in contact with Hannibal lately?”

Will huffs out a surprised laugh at that, almost losing coffee. It was getting lukewarm anyway, he could taste the grounds hanging at the bottom of the cup. He tosses it into the trash can by the gas pumps, rubbing the stubble around his mouth. “You sure know how to bury the lead.” He can't keep the boyish tone out of his voice, eyebrow raising when Jack sighs in agitation, almost being able to picture Jack putting his forehead in his hand to abate a growing headache. He almost laughs at the mental image. _Now you know how I felt,_ he thinks, but nips the thought in the bud before he can insult him. Playing nice with Jack will keep him off his ass for a little longer. “No, I haven't been _in contact_ with Hannibal,” he says mockingly, head moving with the words, “he left me on a beach for you to find, remember? He probably shambled away to die.” He takes out the pump, climbing into the sedan he borrowed (stole) and makes his way back to the country road, heading north to Baltimore. 

“Uh-huh,” Jack says, unamused and unwilling to see Will lying to him, _the hopeful -- not gonna say that._ “He's been leaving you presents. He _misses_ you,” he spat, as if the words burned him to say. Or it's acid reflux. 

“Maybe he's serenading somebody else.” He argues, debating to take the phone away from his ear and put him on speaker. _But that could allow him to track me, again._ He just decides to throw it out the window when he knows Jack is about to argue, hopefully crushing it under his tires. He should've destroyed the damn phone after the first two weeks, but kept onto it with the asinine hope that the burner couldn't be tracked. Next town he gets to, he's gonna stop by a Best Buy. 

He gets to a city outside Baltimore, wiping down the damn car at the very least when he leaves it on a road for the next wanderer. Absently, he remembers Hannibal having driving gloves, in the peak of his encephalitis. When he drove to Minnesota with Hannibal, and the scales fell from his eyes (the father, bleeding in the kitchen). He lifts his chin high, looking down his nose pompously when a few guests give him an aside look, studying his poorly hidden hiking boots (he thinks to himself he needs to find a pair of oxfords again) under his fitted slacks. Not a custom suit, like the ones Hannibal’s used to, but a very nice suit nonetheless. 

He gets through the opera well enough to make polite conversation (bare fucking minimum), wondering if he was even right in following his gut back to Maryland and Virginia. He tips the cold champagne into his mouth, stopping after one because he doesn't need to be tipsy when driving. He knows shoulder Hannibal would end up chastising him. Somebody jostles him, and he grimaces an apologetic smile at them, making a nonchalant motion back to the one person who had been talking to him. He finds a polite way to excuse himself, getting a burning feeling in his guts and on the impact site. He gets to the bathroom, hurriedly patting himself down and finding a note in his pants pocket. It's crinkled from the hasty stuffing of it from the passing, unfolding it with shaking fingers and heart in his throat.

_Dear Will,_

Fucking…

_it seems you're better at following your gut than expected._

Bastard, asshole, goddamn, mother _fucking_ …

_You're getting warmer, Will. I'll be blunt: I hadn't expected you to get closer so quickly, darling boy._

_Darling boy_ echoes in his mind derisively, almost ripping it up without reading it further. He takes a few deep and calming breaths, closing his eyes and counting back from ten. 

_Once again, you have surprised me. How does it feel to hunt, not fish; stalk, not lure? This is the most exciting thing for both of us, I think. A tantalizing reversal of our previous game of cat and mouse._

Previous game of cat and mouse? Okay, deep breath in and out. Wait a minute… hunting, fishing. Stalking and luring. _Abigail._ Will's chin tilts up in understanding, and he shoves the note back into his pocket without reading the rest of it, bolting out of the restroom and ignoring the rest of the opera. He gets to the car, tripping twice in his haste to get down the concrete stairs and back to his car. He tears off the suit jacket, throwing it in the passenger seat and starting the car. 

He makes his way back to Hannibal's old townhouse by memory, shaky hands white knuckled on the wheel. 

He gets out of the car, stumbling for a moment when he hallucinates seeing Alana sprawled on the front steps (the mother, bleeding on the porch). He tries the handle, to no avail. He hops the fence, kicking open an inconspicuous window and carefully pulling himself in. The whole damn place has be white sheets on the furniture, dents in his wooden cupboards from that fateful night (and Abigail, throat slit in the kitchen with her father dying next to her) when he threw away his chance for a family. It takes a moment for his eyes to adjust to the darkness, the stuffy and musty air of the room making him cough. He takes off his shoes, leaving them by the cracked window. 

_He's still wearing the same shirt he wore when he limped up to me at the Uffizi Gallery._

He skulks around the house carefully, head swiveling this way and that. He's still caught off guard from the back, his right wrist pressed behind his back as he's shoved face first onto the island, pinned by body weight. “You miss me?” Will laughs breathily, smiling triumphantly and open-mouthed. He huffs and pulls away, unpinning him but keeping his hold on Will’s wrist. He's spun back to face him, hips corralled back to the island by a knee on his left. “Again with the pinning!” Will snaps. Hannibal tilts his head, releasing the wrist he had in a death grip. Will glares at him, rubbing the reddening skin. “If I could just have a damn moment of your time, _Doctor_ ,” he says spitefully. 

“I wasn't expecting you to find me so soon.” Hannibal shrugs, “Forgive me if I got rougher than you'd have liked.” 

Will raises his eyebrow at that, clearing his throat. “Yeah, to make it up to me, you can teach me how to fight.” He rolls his eyes. Hannibal’s mouth ticks up at the corners. “Anyway, I found you. I _won_ , Hannibal,” He can't help but feel a surge of pride at the achievement, especially in the face of the Doctor who chose to lead him on a goose chase most of the way around the States. 

“I'm sure you have many questions.” Hannibal refuses the bait, knee coming down from Will's front. “Such as why I left you on that beach after you threw us over the cliff.”

“Among other things,” he says coolly, belatedly realizing Hannibal managed to wriggle through a crack in his mask. “I rationalized to myself that it was because you didn't want me, the straw that broke the camel's back.” 

“Didn't I?” Hannibal counters, hands in his pockets. Will finally gets a good look at him, biting down on laughter at his casual clothing that threatens to make Hannibal knife him, again. “You've never once failed to surprise me, Will,” He continues, hand coming out to caress his face with the back of his hand. He frowns when Will flinches away, hand diving back into his pocket. 

“I'm sure you could, if you tried hard enough.” Will shrugs, the humidity in the house coagulating in the kitchen. He unbuttons his shirt, uncaring of Hannibal's eyes following the motion of his hands and another strip of skin revealed. 

“I followed you, for a while--”

“Stalking me? That's a little cliché, Doctor,” Will says with a wry smile. 

“It's rude to interrupt,” Hannibal chides, though the crinkles around his eyes say he's feeling fond, indulgent. “As I was saying--”

“What, you're gonna eat me if I'm rude?” 

“I'd eat you for other reasons,” Hannibal chuckles. 

“Like what?”

Hannibal stops in his tracks, looking down and away bashfully. “To continue on, I watched you, after the fall. You spent so much time with your neck covered. I wondered if it was because you needed your collar up to stave off the chill of Maine. But even as Maine grew warmer--”

Will scoffs, “--Are we really talking about my _fashion choices_ and _Maine weather_ \--”

“--The collar remained up.” Hannibal finishes. Will's mouth opens, and it's his turn to go silent and turn his head away bashfully. “Why is that?”

Will's hands flex at his sides with the urge to knead. It’s what he'd done at the cliff, he pulled him closer. He snaps his mouth shut, then open and shut like a fish gasping for water. “It…” he started, eyes on Hannibal's chin. 

“It what? Darling boy, you've always been able to look in my eyes, why not now?” Hannibal wheedles, tipping Will's chin up with his four fingers, excluding the thumb. Will, stubbornly, refuses to meet his eyes with a small grin. 

“It's rude to interrupt,” Will jokes, blue flicking to meet brown for a second. “But the collar thing...it didn't feel right to...be exposed like that,” He finishes lamely, mentally kicking himself. 

“Necks are intimate,” Hannibal nods sagely, like something he said makes sense. Will gets the urge to roll his eyes, but refrains. _Not in front of Hannibal_. “Animals have collars put on them, to denote ownership.” 

Will swallows, nodding sarcastically and with exasperation. “Uh-huh, okay. Why leave me on the beach?” He looks Hannibal square in the eye, emphasizing the importance of him knowing. 

Hannibal pauses, hand twitching in his pocket. “I was curious.”

Will scoffs, jabbing his index finger into Hannibal's chest. “You're always curious. Come on, cough it up,” He goads, crossing his arms.

Hannibal can't meet his eyes now. “For once, I wanted to be chased. The lure.” He says quietly, pride still enough intact to not mumble. 

Something in Will's chest breaks. “Hannibal, you moron-- c'mere,” he says, hands flying to Hannibal's face, his thumbs touching his cheekbones and other four fingers under his ear. He hauls him forward, pulling Hannibal somewhat off balance and knocking their foreheads together. 

“Ow,” Hannibal deadpans, his hands on the countertop entrapping Will’s waist. 

“Shut up,” He smiles despite himself, other hand coming back to that same shoulder he held on the cliff, kneading and pulling him closer. “You moron--”

“There's no need for name calling--” He chastises, not an ounce of bite behind it, shutting up when Will's other hand lays an index finger on his lips. 

“You tried to eat me once. Before that, you stabbed me, killed our daughter, drove me nearly insane and manipulated me.” He snickers, and Hannibal almost rolls his eyes now, pulled back by the finger tapping twice. “What, Hannibal the Cannibal has hang ups about being held accountable?” _Hannibal blushes_. “Oh,” Will coos playfully, “I think red might be your color,” 

Hannibal's hand covers the hand attached to the finger on his mouth. “Don't tease,” He asks, voice made raspy. 

“Oh, the man who made me chase him across the goddamn country can't handle a taste of his own medicine?” Will raises his eyebrow at him. Hannibal seems cowed finally, a corner of his mouth still up. “S’what I thought,” 

“My darling, I find that most medicine is not as sweet as you are,” Hannibal quips, genuine fondness in his eyes. 

Will, despite everything in him, blushes. “That was cheesy as hell, Doctor.” 

“And yet, you're blushing,” Hannibal notes, eyes on Will's lips. 

Will sighs. “And yet, I'm blushing,” He agrees, looking away and letting out a bluster of air. 

“Red is a fetching color on you, my dear,” 

“Oh,” Will scoffs, cheeks flaming harder, “Don't you--”

“I what? Turn your own words against you?” Hannibal laughs, his hand coming up to cradle Will's cheek tenderly. 

“Seriously? Darling? God, could you be any more pretentious?” 

“I prefer old world shows of affection,” He argues. 

“Oh, what, like human origami and the three of swords reversed?” 

Hannibal huffs with amusement. “So you did get my heart,” 

“I think I had that the very moment I made eye contact with you. Or was it after I said you wouldn't like me if you psychoanalyzed me?” 

Hannibal hesitates thoughtfully. “I believe you had it the very second I laid my eyes on you.” The seriousness of what he said makes Will's heart stutter and pick up speed in his chest. Hannibal's head ducks a little further, “I love you, Will Graham,” 

“Oh, you fucking asshole--” Will seethes, drawing him in and finally kissing the pompous bastard. It's intense and teeth knock together and blood is shared from mouth to mouth and Hannibal is groaning into his mouth and Will's lightheaded and breaks away first. Hannibal, instead, begins peppering kisses all over Will's face, but especially on the scar he left. Will giggles like a schoolboy, shrinking away further from Hannibal. “Hey, what the hell is all of that for?” 

“I'm making up for all the years I've spent torturing you, hoping to mold you into something made in my image. Not once did I consider that righteousness would be turned on me, your godlike ire and my molding of you turned to make something outside of my control. It's a ‘thank you’, and an ‘I'm sorry’.” Hannibal murmurs, thumbing an errant curl away. 

“Hannibal Lecter, apologizing to me?” Will smirks, bunting his forehead with Hannibal's. “Cmon, kiss me,” 

“Giving me orders?” Hannibal asks, stepping closer and crowding Will between the island and himself. 

“Oh, well, if you don't want to--” Will responds, anchored in by Hannibal's hand on his waist. He looks back innocently at Hannibal, finding an unamused look on his face. 

“Dearest, _infuriating_ boy--” Keys jiggle in the lock of the home, and both look at each other in trepidation. Will grabs Hannibal's hand, darting silently through the home and back through the window Will’s broken (Will snatching up his shoes as Hannibal pulls him through the window), abandoning his borrowed car and leaving with Hannibal. “I assume we will continue later?” 

“Don't tell me you're no longer presumptuous, Hannibal,” Will purrs, belatedly realizing he forgot his goddamn jacket in his car. “You sound hopeful,”

“Should I not be?” Hannibal returns, turning a corner into a busy street. 

Will hums noncommittally, making himself comfortable in the car. “You know, I've always wanted to go to Oregon.” 

* * *

“Will, are you sure you've not been in contact with Hannibal?” Jack asks, still somehow not sounding urgent about catching Hannibal. 

“Jack,” He sighs, looking back at the love of his life who's making way down the road, “I think I'd know if Hannibal was talking to me.” 

“I'm still not entirely sure you're on my side, Will,” 

“Or maybe you never bothered to consider if I was ever on your side,” He snaps, “Maybe Chilton was right in the end, maybe saving lives is just as arousing as ending them is.” 

Jack scoffs. “I should've known you'd go with Hannibal,” He spat, and Will would've taken the phone away from his ear at his tone if he weren't the man he was. 

“ _Yes_ , it always was that pesky little faith in me, that you could guide me towards the light, even as you led me by the nose into the dark.” He sighs, sharing a loving grin with Hannibal. “Except for when I dove into the dark, that much you could never predict,” Hannibal kisses his knuckles, intertwined on the steering wheel. “I'm just embracing my nature, really. Good luck, Jack. And I'll give your very best to Hannibal.” He throws the phone out of the open window, leaning his elbow on the opening. “Eyes on the road, Doctor,” He smiles to himself. 

“I can't bear to look away from your radiance, Will,” Hannibal replies, mirroring Will's grin. “It beckons to me, I'm afraid I'm Icarus in the face of the sun,” 

“Mhm,” Will says smugly, “Well, if you aren't going to practice road safety, I'd like a kiss for all my troubles.” He levels him with a steady gaze, watching Hannibal watch him. 

“I'd have thought I'd be the one wearing the proverbial pants in this relationship, but it appears not,” 

“You don't sound so unhappy about that,” 

Hannibal stays silent in contemplation. “There is nobody I'd rather cede control to, my love.” Will's stomach flips just like the first time he was called that, and the time after and the time after. He looks away, just like all the times he bares his soul, so he knows Hannibal’s sincere. 

“I love you too, Hannibal,” He says, leaning over and kissing his husband's cheek. “Now keep your eyes on the road, please.”

**Author's Note:**

> i dont think i did molly or wally justice here, if you hate it you can come and yell at me on my tumblr about it (luvridden)


End file.
